Dear You Know Who,  Here’s a letter I can’t send. The last one I did was the final one, but I didn’t know it. I can’t even muster up the energy to pretend to write something worth reading anyway, so I’ll just say what I need to say. Get on with it. Leave it here, out of my head, my body.  I am sorry about your marriage. I am. And maybe you can save it. If that’s what you want, I hope that you get it. I am sorry for your children. For what a divorce will do to your relationship with them. I am genuinely sorry for your loss, for the work that lies ahead of you.  We love each other, you and I. I know you do. Just a few days ago, before she asked for a separation, you told me loved me. It went like this: You told a joke. You said, ‘No one here laughed at that. Did you at least giggle?’ ‘Yup’ ‘That’s because you’re as sick as me.’ ‘Duh.’ ‘It’s why I love you.’ (long pause) ‘Wow.’ “Which part? The sick part or the love part?” “Love part. It wasn’t a bad wow. I just wan’t expecting you to write that.” “I was wondering what you’d say about that. But I do. And I respect your strength.” And I thought to myself, I prayed for this. I said I would write you, and you would be in love with me and when she was sick and tired of not understanding who you are, what you are, you’d be mine.  But these things never happen the way you want them to. Or maybe they do. I don’t know.  We love each other. Over the last six months, what has made our continued contact permissible by me, is that we haven’t commented on it. No, “I love you”s. No commentary on the past, or seeing each other this spring. We send each other beautiful poems, and write out our lives. Then we talk every few months, and I just want to keep opening up to you, opening and hiding nothing, letting you see what is so ugly and real, to hear you say again that you know I am beautiful because you know what I look like on the inside. But we don’t do that now. It’s all measured. Steady hands.  It was the only way. But I am confused. Maybe not confused, but emotional. We are having an affair, an emotional affair. And as long as we continue to do this, I won’t be able to understand what I need to do.  When we started talking last year, I was already unclear about my own marriage. I have legitimate needs that aren’t being met, or I need to learn to live without them. I think I know the answer, and it terrifies me. Currently my connection to you prevents me from knowing what I need to do, and how to do it. It won’t help you to win her back, either. And even if you and she don’t make it, and you divorce, you have a long road ahead of you, baby, and I will not be the woman you go to for healing.  I want you. I’m in love with you. Everything I have to say about loving you is trite. You make me laugh, I think you’re sexy, you make me catch my breath when I see you, when I hear your voice I want to curl up on your lap, you get me, I love it when I make you laugh. I love you for no reason at all because from what I understand of it, love’s got nothing to do with reason. I simply do. And if you find that you actually do love me, and want me, then show up. Come find me, and we’ll go from there. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t walk you through this. It isn’t fair to any of us.  ‘ micasaessucasa: (via Leafing through Green Tips to Flower-Power Up Crib | The Beautifulist) View high resolution

Dear You Know Who, 

Here’s a letter I can’t send. The last one I did was the final one, but I didn’t know it. I can’t even muster up the energy to pretend to write something worth reading anyway, so I’ll just say what I need to say. Get on with it. Leave it here, out of my head, my body. 

I am sorry about your marriage. I am. And maybe you can save it. If that’s what you want, I hope that you get it. I am sorry for your children. For what a divorce will do to your relationship with them. I am genuinely sorry for your loss, for the work that lies ahead of you. 

We love each other, you and I. I know you do. Just a few days ago, before she asked for a separation, you told me loved me. It went like this:

You told a joke. You said, ‘No one here laughed at that. Did you at least giggle?’

‘Yup’

‘That’s because you’re as sick as me.’

‘Duh.’

‘It’s why I love you.’

(long pause) ‘Wow.’

“Which part? The sick part or the love part?”

“Love part. It wasn’t a bad wow. I just wan’t expecting you to write that.”

“I was wondering what you’d say about that. But I do. And I respect your strength.”

And I thought to myself, I prayed for this. I said I would write you, and you would be in love with me and when she was sick and tired of not understanding who you are, what you are, you’d be mine. 

But these things never happen the way you want them to. Or maybe they do. I don’t know. 

We love each other. Over the last six months, what has made our continued contact permissible by me, is that we haven’t commented on it. No, “I love you”s. No commentary on the past, or seeing each other this spring. We send each other beautiful poems, and write out our lives. Then we talk every few months, and I just want to keep opening up to you, opening and hiding nothing, letting you see what is so ugly and real, to hear you say again that you know I am beautiful because you know what I look like on the inside. But we don’t do that now. It’s all measured. Steady hands. 

It was the only way. But I am confused. Maybe not confused, but emotional. We are having an affair, an emotional affair. And as long as we continue to do this, I won’t be able to understand what I need to do. 

When we started talking last year, I was already unclear about my own marriage. I have legitimate needs that aren’t being met, or I need to learn to live without them. I think I know the answer, and it terrifies me. Currently my connection to you prevents me from knowing what I need to do, and how to do it. It won’t help you to win her back, either. And even if you and she don’t make it, and you divorce, you have a long road ahead of you, baby, and I will not be the woman you go to for healing. 

I want you. I’m in love with you. Everything I have to say about loving you is trite. You make me laugh, I think you’re sexy, you make me catch my breath when I see you, when I hear your voice I want to curl up on your lap, you get me, I love it when I make you laugh. I love you for no reason at all because from what I understand of it, love’s got nothing to do with reason. I simply do. And if you find that you actually do love me, and want me, then show up. Come find me, and we’ll go from there. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t walk you through this. It isn’t fair to any of us. 

‘

micasaessucasa:

(via Leafing through Green Tips to Flower-Power Up Crib | The Beautifulist)

(Reblogged from architectureblog)
You could have knocked me over with a feather.  The news you delivered to me, I was the first person you told. I’m sure there was no significance in that.  I almost can’t believe it, and I am overwhelmed with a guilty giddiness.  She asked you to leave, which I predicted.  You won’t win her back with charm and pleading.  The irony being that now that you’re available, I can’t be. I love you too much, and I love myself even more.  maliciousglamour: Glamour France, May 1992Photographer: Peter LindberghModel: Linda Evangelista View high resolution

You could have knocked me over with a feather. 

The news you delivered to me, I was the first person you told. I’m sure there was no significance in that. 

I almost can’t believe it, and I am overwhelmed with a guilty giddiness. 

She asked you to leave, which I predicted. 

You won’t win her back with charm and pleading. 

The irony being that now that you’re available, I can’t be. I love you too much, and I love myself even more. 

maliciousglamour:

Glamour France, May 1992
Photographer: Peter Lindbergh
Model: Linda Evangelista

(Reblogged from maliciousglamour)
I will not hide. I do not play games. I give because I want to, not because I expect something in return.  I have everything I need.  I set the terms of an agreement and take responsibility for completing it.  I do not punish others or myself.  I am loving.  Loving is enough.  Loving is its own joy. Its own reward.  Gratitude relinquishes from me the burden of control.  I know that I am loved. littleg: (via 你是我一世的色彩)

I will not hide.

I do not play games.

I give because I want to, not because I expect something in return. 

I have everything I need. 

I set the terms of an agreement and take responsibility for completing it. 

I do not punish others or myself. 

I am loving. 

Loving is enough. 

Loving is its own joy. Its own reward. 

Gratitude relinquishes from me the burden of control. 

I know that I am loved.

littleg:

(via 你是我一世的色彩)

(Reblogged from littleg)
and so now we are friends. careful. awakened.  (don’t you hear that heartbeat?) I’ve told you our sad story and you reacted the way every other person has.  horrified. saddened.  (you thought I was going to tell you I was getting divorced. was that hopeful?) the pathetic thing is, I wish that had been my story, instead of this. would you give up with her? would you cease to find your way out of the woods, wandering instead to me? I wish that we could be the Israeli cashier and Palestinian bag boy. A less complicated relationship.  I have to be honest. I’m not sure I can do this - keeping my hand steady. (can’t you tell how hopelessly, utterly and desperately in love I am?) A letter. Let’s see what develops.  loveyourchaos: (by timington(lazing with the kitties))

and so now we are friends. careful. awakened. 

(don’t you hear that heartbeat?)

I’ve told you our sad story and you reacted the way every other person has. 

horrified. saddened. 

(you thought I was going to tell you I was getting divorced. was that hopeful?)

the pathetic thing is, I wish that had been my story, instead of this. would you give up with her? would you cease to find your way out of the woods, wandering instead to me?

I wish that we could be the Israeli cashier and Palestinian bag boy. A less complicated relationship. 

I have to be honest. I’m not sure I can do this - keeping my hand steady.

(can’t you tell how hopelessly, utterly and desperately in love I am?)

A letter. Let’s see what develops. 

loveyourchaos:

(by timington(lazing with the kitties))

(Reblogged from loveyourchaos)

Dear E.

I’ll start writing you a letter in earnest while I’m on my trip. It will take me some time to finish it, perhaps even some time to begin it. I like the voice I use when I write to you, the world view I have, the honesty I extend to you. But tonight before I go to sleep I’ll write the letter, type the letter I can’t send, now. 

I wish you’d come to me in Chicago, or Nanjing, or that small town outside of Krakow or where ever I was. I longed for you. Wept. And when I did, you listened to me over that telephone line, and in awe, asked if I was crying for you. I could hardly stop but to breathe.

I should give you up. And you should give me up. I did give you up and I believe everything happens for a reason. B’shert, as they say. I gave you up so hard I did blot out your very name. Tore up the letters. Tore them up, E. 

(It’s why I just want a few more from you. I will tie them together and keep them in a safe place. )

I forgot about you and then four years went by. I got a simple email from you, and I rebuffed your advance, your suggestion, implication, that we could be on friendly terms. I wrote to you that I wished you nothing but blessings. You owed me nothing. But yes, I was glad you lived 10,000 miles away. 

I searched through my emails and found two other messages of this kind. My responses the next times were terse. I should have not responded at all, I assume. I think that’s what most people would suggest. 

And then, well, fucking facebook. A pox upon it. But really, it’s all our own faults, for we cross our own boundaries, tread upon our bullshit values, and reconnect with former…uh, what are you to me again?

I kind of wish I could go back to that day last April when you left me a voice mail. What a shock to hear your voice after nine years, and more to the point, to hear you say my name. I will stipulate that Maddie is not my real name, being my nom de keyboard. My real name begins with a hard consonant, and you barked it out, a demand, dropping the second syllable. You say my name and reveal my very nature. You tell me who I am, who I am to you. 

When we spoke, we were both bowled over by the intensity. There was nothing illicit in our conversation. So much of what we had to say was triage. Did this really happen? Where you as impacted as I was? Where you there, too? Yes, I loved you. Yes, you loved me. And it seems we both still do. 

But here I am now. Over a year later in my wake I have told you in a rather long and coherent email to leave me alone (after which I talked to you for over an hour about the terms of “never” and where at the end you said you loved me.), began an emotional affair with an entirely different and supremely inappropriate person, ended it, completed a strict conversion to one of the major world religions, had my husband move out for over three months as part of its terms (which I very guiltily loved), had a second wedding to him, received a message from you that you’d be in my city in a few weeks, had you in my arms, held your hands (is this the hand? Yes, Maddie, this is the hand.) and longed for you all over again. 

I didn’t want this. You and I do, as you say, have a very powerful connection. Not having you in my life doesn’t change that fact but over time, I can live without it. 

I’ve written here before, and it is true, that the only thing more painful than not being with the person you’re in love with, is living without integrity. 

I’m no cheater. I don’t have the stomach for it. 

You are (though interestingly, you think your special brand of cheating doesn’t count. When you figure out it does, I fear I will go by the wayside, also.) But you don’t have the stomach for it, either. 

Is what we’re allowing ourselves cheating? If you have to ask, you can’t afford it, I guess. 

Still, I have bigger problems. In my letter, I will tell you what happened this summer, and perhaps by then, I’ll know more about the repercussions to our religious lives. The shock wore off for me, now I’m left with paranoia and rage. A stunning combination that induces sleepless nights and late mornings - not an easy way of life with small children at home. Mercifully, it’s still summer vacation for us, and we have few appointments to meet. I can let the weight of grief press down on me, for now. 

I have not wanted to talk to you. I do. But the couple of times it’s been possible, it was not convenient, emotionally, for me. Now I have an ugly story to tell, and it is a burden to pass on to others, even to you, especially to you, though I know your reaction would be as loving and compassionate as anyone else I’ve told. 

It’s just that, I want your love and your compassion. All of the time. But I cannot live a life of regret. It seems that every good thing I do, every act of charity, kindness, learning I do, I do for you. I do it in service to love, and my love is of you. 

It’s easy with you, E. And I miss you. love, not maddie

“I have a pen for you, and another Amichai to send.” , you wrote.  You are sailing on a large ship full of hungry retirees in the Alaskan Gulf by now, I think. What a thing to do. You’re too young for that.  The pen waits in New York or Jerusalem. It waits for a weak moment, or a gap in your logic, it waits to be mailed to me, it’s rightful owner.  I’d be grateful for your generosity, but I was demanding and bratty, and you caved in to my desires.  I wonder if you’ve told someone, anyone with a lick of sense, of the gifts you’ve bought for me, sent and unsent. I imagine their reaction, your back-pedaling and excuses, your equivocations. Your embarrassed smile at them when you realize how preposterous it all sounds. But I imagine this the way I imagine you telling your therapist about us. The raised eyebrows, the questions about our contact. It’s prurient, even though I already know the details. The truth. Still, I would like to hear you tell the story. But I’m funny that way - I would listen to you tell me any story, E. Any story at all.  Where’s my fucking pen? View high resolution

“I have a pen for you, and another Amichai to send.” , you wrote. 

You are sailing on a large ship full of hungry retirees in the Alaskan Gulf by now, I think. What a thing to do. You’re too young for that. 

The pen waits in New York or Jerusalem. It waits for a weak moment, or a gap in your logic, it waits to be mailed to me, it’s rightful owner. 

I’d be grateful for your generosity, but I was demanding and bratty, and you caved in to my desires. 

I wonder if you’ve told someone, anyone with a lick of sense, of the gifts you’ve bought for me, sent and unsent. I imagine their reaction, your back-pedaling and excuses, your equivocations. Your embarrassed smile at them when you realize how preposterous it all sounds. But I imagine this the way I imagine you telling your therapist about us. The raised eyebrows, the questions about our contact. It’s prurient, even though I already know the details. The truth. Still, I would like to hear you tell the story. But I’m funny that way - I would listen to you tell me any story, E. Any story at all. 

Where’s my fucking pen?

(Reblogged from midnightvignette)
It’s late here. I should be asleep or at least struggling against my mind, tossing and turning. I should not be writing. I should not still be awake. I should not. I should not.  But what should I be doing? What else could I be doing?  A few night ago I cried myself to sleep, missing you, but more than that. I missed a place we never even had. I longed to go back to that place with you, wishing I could meet you there.  I have a story to tell you. And now, talking to you isn’t simple. I would have to lead with this story. It’s a shock. A misery to tell it. I hate telling the story as much as I hated hearing it the first time.  I can’t tell it here. It’s too gruesome. Too real. And yet, I am fine. My people are, or will be, fine. It has left me vulnerable, and because of that, I know it is a mercy you have left me alone this summer while you are in New York. How easy it would be to talk. To text. To carry on. It’s even possible you have been here. I can’t know, and there are ways to find out. My Gd, how I hate the fucking internet.  We aren’t really friends. We can’t be. I mean, I wish we could be, but then you’d just be another friend. Not so special. How could I forget what we were? I mean, we’ve never even been able to name it, have we? We sure as hell didn’t date. I wasn’t your girlfriend. Lovers? I suppose that is true enough. But it hardly explains the nature of it. The intensity of it.  Do you miss me? Is it too hard? I like it better when you are the one to reach out, and I am the one with the good sense.  But over the years, you’ve reliably tossed a vulnerable, sad word or two my way, waiting for my response. You know I love you, E. And I’m always going to. I wish it were easy for us, for me, for you. Because I could use your ear on this one. It’s tough, as tough a deal as I ever hope to deal with. I could do to hear your heart break for me and us just a little. I could do to hear your comforting words, the release of your breath when you hear the news I have to deliver. I could stand to hear you say my name.  You aren’t the only one. I have many friends. Dear. Lovely. Supportive. I am leaning on them, for sure, as I must.  But I do miss you like hell.  At the end of August, I’ll start a letter. I’ll tell you what happened. Maybe that will have to do for now.  John Bauer. Princess Tuvstar still stares at the water looking for her heart, 1913.

It’s late here. I should be asleep or at least struggling against my mind, tossing and turning. I should not be writing. I should not still be awake. I should not. I should not. 

But what should I be doing? What else could I be doing? 

A few night ago I cried myself to sleep, missing you, but more than that. I missed a place we never even had. I longed to go back to that place with you, wishing I could meet you there. 

I have a story to tell you. And now, talking to you isn’t simple. I would have to lead with this story. It’s a shock. A misery to tell it. I hate telling the story as much as I hated hearing it the first time. 

I can’t tell it here. It’s too gruesome. Too real. And yet, I am fine. My people are, or will be, fine. It has left me vulnerable, and because of that, I know it is a mercy you have left me alone this summer while you are in New York. How easy it would be to talk. To text. To carry on. It’s even possible you have been here. I can’t know, and there are ways to find out. My Gd, how I hate the fucking internet. 

We aren’t really friends. We can’t be. I mean, I wish we could be, but then you’d just be another friend. Not so special. How could I forget what we were? I mean, we’ve never even been able to name it, have we? We sure as hell didn’t date. I wasn’t your girlfriend. Lovers? I suppose that is true enough. But it hardly explains the nature of it. The intensity of it. 

Do you miss me? Is it too hard? I like it better when you are the one to reach out, and I am the one with the good sense. 

But over the years, you’ve reliably tossed a vulnerable, sad word or two my way, waiting for my response. You know I love you, E. And I’m always going to. I wish it were easy for us, for me, for you. Because I could use your ear on this one. It’s tough, as tough a deal as I ever hope to deal with. I could do to hear your heart break for me and us just a little. I could do to hear your comforting words, the release of your breath when you hear the news I have to deliver. I could stand to hear you say my name. 

You aren’t the only one. I have many friends. Dear. Lovely. Supportive. I am leaning on them, for sure, as I must. 

But I do miss you like hell. 

At the end of August, I’ll start a letter. I’ll tell you what happened. Maybe that will have to do for now. 

John Bauer. Princess Tuvstar still stares at the water looking for her heart, 1913.

(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)

About us

I’m writing our story but I don’t know how it ends yet. 

You want to give me a good ending? 

Leave her. I’ll never say it to you, but you know I want you to. 

Show up on my doorstep with your hands deep in your pockets and one foot resting up on the landing. You’ll call to me, bark my name it it’s two syllables. 

And when I appear at the screen door, standing there like I knew I’d find you in the place sooner or later, you say this:

“I left her.”

And I say, “Oh?”

And you say, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” , in that tone you reserve for delivering news you know I want to hear, that makes my gut turn to a molten, burning orb. 

So I go, “Then I guess we really do have time.”

And this makes you laugh a little and I come down to meet you on the walk, my arms crossed tightly under my breasts. I stand right in front of you in the daylight and match your focus and gaze. We look at each other for awhile until you speak. 

“I love you.” And you say my name, the one syllable version, which I love. 

I smile wide and can barely say, “I know!” for the laughter escaping from my body. Throwing back my head against the hilarity and stabilizing myself by grabbing your arms. 

“Come on!”  I command, and turn to walk back into the cool shade of my little house. 

And obediently, you follow. 

“We have time, right?” Time, time enough. Us. You and me.  What I wouldn’t give for a day. A lifetime.  But you chose her, not me. And I chose him.  Oh, my sweet friend, can we reform, refashion, reinvent?  Time, careening downhill like a runaway Radio Flyer wagon.  I want to come to a crashing, ass over teacup halt, into your arms. To be held there, waiting for your pleading, whispered demands.  Opening every door. Showing you every room. Residing there with you.  View high resolution

“We have time, right?”

Time, time enough. Us. You and me. 

What I wouldn’t give for a day. A lifetime. 

But you chose her, not me. And I chose him. 

Oh, my sweet friend, can we reform, refashion, reinvent? 

Time, careening downhill like a runaway Radio Flyer wagon. 

I want to come to a crashing, ass over teacup halt, into your arms.

To be held there, waiting for your pleading, whispered demands. 

Opening every door. Showing you every room. Residing there with you. 

(Source: beautifulurself)

(Reblogged from loveyourchaos)
“ “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.” —Edna St. Vincent Millay You: Did you ever get my letter?Me: Two days ago. Beautiful stationery. You: Sorry it took so long. Me: No apology necessary. Letters take time. To write. To deliver. (and here’s what killed me)You: We have time, right?(a long pause)Me: You and me?You: yeah(a longer pause)Me: Yes, Eitan. I think the pace and thoughtfulness of letters are good for us. Tell me great oracle, what am I to do with this man? I will tell you what I’ve been repeating to myself for the last two weeks; the only thing harder than not being with the one you love, is living without integrity. Tonight, I’m not so fucking sure.  (via thechocolatebrigade) bendingsubmission: slutinsecret View high resolution

“

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

You: Did you ever get my letter?
Me: Two days ago. Beautiful stationery. 
You: Sorry it took so long. 
Me: No apology necessary. Letters take time. To write. To deliver. 
(and here’s what killed me)
You: We have time, right?
(a long pause)
Me: You and me?
You: yeah
(a longer pause)
Me: Yes, Eitan. I think the pace and thoughtfulness of letters are good for us.

Tell me great oracle, what am I to do with this man? I will tell you what I’ve been repeating to myself for the last two weeks; the only thing harder than not being with the one you love, is living without integrity.

Tonight, I’m not so fucking sure.

 (via thechocolatebrigade)

bendingsubmission:

slutinsecret

(Reblogged from bendingsubmission)